I've been writing ever since I was a child, but only recently started to produce stuff that's worth publishing. I'm obsessed with sushi, UFC, Veep, Game of Thrones, chocolate, good, indie music (mostly British), French rap (I don't speak a word of French, by the way) and making people smile.

I'm a college drop out. Twice. I'm married to a man who constantly inspires me to write about love, because - well - he is just so worthy of it. I read more than I write. I live on the outskirts of San Francisco. I'm ridiculously scared of clowns.

My debut novel, Tyed, is now available on Amazon. I'm now working on book #2, which will be published in February 2016.

"I plan ahead and I don’t go easy on my competitors who don’t. Which reminds me…what's up with you and the blond guy?”

He can't possibly mean Charlie Hunnam, right?

"You mean Shane?" I wash the sushi down my throat with a big gulp of scotch. “We’re just friends.”

"And he's good with that, with you just being friends?" Ty’s eyes are probing mine, looking for the truth.

Well, no...

"Well, yes." I lift a defiant chin. "We grew up together. We go to the same university. We hang out, but that's it."

“I don’t like him,” he says simply. Like he has the right to. Like he even knows the guy.

“That’s okay. I doubt he’ll be asking you on a boys’ night out anytime soon.”

“His motives aren’t pure. He wants you.” Ty takes a small sip from his scotch, throwing a piece of gum into his mouth. I continue munching the sushi. He hasn't touched it, and after our little conversation, I doubt that he will.

“And you took me out on a date purely for my intellectual abilities,” I drawl.

“No, I took you out on a date because I want to fuck your brains out, among other things, and I know that the feeling is mutual. Unlike your buddy Shane, I don’t sugarcoat my intentions. I don’t want to be your friend. I have no interest in hanging out with you at the mall or choosing outfits with you or crap like that. I crave you. I want all of you, every single inch of you. And call it an only-child syndrome, but I. DO. NOT. FUCKING. SHARE.”

The scotch glass slips through my fingers. He doesn’t even acknowledge my clumsiness. I pick up the glass and dab at the spilled scotch with a napkin from the sushi tray while he just continues to glare.

A part of me wants to knock the rest of the bottle of scotch down my throat, then jump on his body and tear every single item of clothing off of his unbelievably muscular physique. A different part of me wants to slap him hard for being so rude. A third part of me wants to hug him for making my heart swell inside my chest, telling me what I wanted to hear ever since I laid eyes on him.

Bottom line? Every single part of me wants to touch Ty Wilder. Bad.

“You're rude."

"I'm direct." His eyes wander to my lips, and something shifts in the atmosphere, making the room incredibly hot all of a sudden. I look away quickly.

I have to change the subject.

"My turn to cross-examine you. So who is Nicole, and how many Nicoles are there? I overheard her talking about you the other night at Ned’s, and let’s just say your female fan base will be thinning out pretty quickly if you keep fucking it up. Literally.”

He looks impressed by my assertiveness, but his jaw tenses. "Any chance we can change the subject back to you being a vegetarian?"

"No chance in hell," I retort.

He sighs. "You're not going to like it."

I take a big gulp. What happened to Mr. Fuck-Your-Brains-Out? "Try me."

He shrugs and runs a hand over his head, an it's-your-funeral look plastered on his face. “There are countless Nicoles. I’m not even sure who the Nicole you’re referring to is. It's all just a bunch of sloppy one-night stands. Though sometimes they stretch into a few weeks of fuck-buddy-ism."

“So these women just have sex with you and want nothing more?” I snort my condemnation. I shouldn’t be judging. Sleeping with a guy without emotional attachment doesn’t make you a whore. It can even make you a feminist.

Ty gets into my face, gathers my hair into a ponytail and grazes his five o’clock stubble near the sensitive area at the back of my neck. “Jealous, Barbie?"

I snort my amusement. “Please. It's just that I heard Nicole saying that you were with three girls at once. Is it true?” I not try to choke on my words, to look indifferent.

Please deny this. Please say it isn’t true. Pretty, pretty please.

I mean, really? A foursome? A threesome is a stretch. A foursome is a Bourne Ultimatum mission.

Ty drops his hands from my face and bites his inner cheek, looking away. "This is not a good first date topic," he says evenly.

I have my answer.

I choke back my anger. “So what’s all this crap?” I motion around us with my hands.

“You’re different,” he replies.

“Bet you never used that one before.” My legs push me upward. School assignment or not, this dude just told me in the middle of our first date that he’s hooking up with a shitload of girls, sometimes four at a time, and Brain has had enough. It’s getting ballsy.

“Sit down,” Ty orders calmly.

“Take me home.”

“You’re mad because I told you I sleep with other girls?” He is mumbling to himself, almost as if it’s the first time he’s met a girl who isn’t okay with this.

“Wow. You worked that out quickly. Are you sure you want to stay in the XWL and deprive the world of science of your incredible brain?”

I grab the scotch bottle by its neck and zigzag my way toward the door.

What the hell was I thinking? He is a famous, probably semi-rich, athlete. His whole reputation rests on the premise of his alpha maleness.

I push the door open and stride for the trees. I have no idea where I’m going, but I have to get away. Everywhere he touched me stings like fire, his skin infected with so many past girls who dirtied him up for me.

The black night swallows me, and the wooden cabin disappears from my sight. But worry is for calculated, levelheaded people. My head’s a giant mess right now. I’m expecting him to storm out, to stop me, to explain himself. But with every step I take, I realize that this may not happen and that I'm ultimately screwed.